


Tints

by Mersayde



Series: Ghastly Antiques [7]
Category: Growing A Sun
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Implied Suicide Attempt, M/M, Pink - Freeform, gay boys in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-07
Updated: 2018-04-07
Packaged: 2019-04-19 20:35:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14245242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mersayde/pseuds/Mersayde
Summary: In which Pink is a boy that forgets love exists within the shades of colors. And Blue is a boy that realizes tints can blind you in the most painful way.Tumblr Prompt: PinkWritten:4/15/17





	Tints

Entry #9

Dear you,

If you don’t know his name, can't remember his name, you can call him Pink. Yeah, that describes him well. His lips are pink. _Very pink_. The type of pink that makes you want to kiss them, or maybe it wasn’t the color that drew me to him. Maybe it was just him. I don't know, life is too confusing for me to have answers to these kinds of things.

His cheeks are pink too, they overflowed with it. I love his cheeks, I love pinching them, and kissing them, and looking at them. 

When he’s cold or sick, his nose gets pink. It amazes me. I should be jealous, that image of him taunts me, compels me to recreate it. To keep it. I find myself trying to mix all the colors together on my palette but none of it compares to him. Nothing compares to the pink that dances over his golden brown skin. I wonder what mythology can put his existence into words, what belief can capture his bright essence, or his playful smiles.

I feel my world tilting when he smiles, when his pastel lips touch mine, when his soft hands caress me, when his cloud like curls meet my grip. 

**My world turns pink, but his is always grey.**

See the thing they don’t tell you about colors is that they’re feelings and memories. That they come with a price. That anything and all things will fill you with rage when it turns sour. How hauntingly bland it all becomes when it washes away like chalk on concrete.

They don’t tell you that a gift like that cannot last forever.

And as you watch it fleet from your reluctant hands, helpless, so will they. 

And it will all crumble. 

Pink became my favorite color, but after him I couldn’t look at it anymore, despised anything I saw it in, in it. They don’t tell you that love will become your pink while life is still grey, and everything was grey. 

Especially for him. 

 

He used to tell me, pink lips parting into a smile, that I made his grey world **blue**. That even though blue meant sad, grey meant nothing. And he would rather feel sad than feel nothing. 

From then on, I was his Blue Boy. Everything from my veins, to my eyes, to my cold fingertips, were already blue. But I was a different shade. I was the blue in the sky and the waves in the ocean. I was blue from a different spectrum. I moved for the purpose of him. From the way I held him, the way my lips moved with him, sharing my whispers, my support, my everything.

Blue.

“How can love be blue?” I would ask. And he would laugh, stare at me with pink cheeks, and say:

“Even the constellations, whose only purpose is to live through the night, don’t know why they shine the way they do. They don’t have an answer to every mystery that existing brings, even all the way up there. They just do. They just _are_.” That confused me, but I get it now. 

I should have told him that I understood. 

I am the blue in his grey world. A hint of change in his incessant monochromatic scheme. I was his. And he was mine. There was no theory to our compatible colors, it just was, it just _is._

But it wasn’t long until the pink that was in his cheeks were in his eyes. Because those who looked at us never smiled. They glanced at my cold hands touching his warm ones and turned into daggers. Their eyes were glass, reflecting all of the things he feared and couldn’t escape.

His dad yelled at him a lot. His mouth would morph into another, trying to swallow his happiness whole. His dad didn’t want to understand how his son could be made this way. How he could embarrass them. He would come over after that, his eyes pink, his nose pink, always pink. 

Even sad, he was pink. 

Eventually, his grey turned black. And black is worse than grey. Blue is _sad_ , and grey is _nothing_ , but black is _suffocating_. It stuck to him, and he tried to scrub it off. His skin would turn violet. I hated it.

He told me his grey hell froze over blue, that he couldn’t see anything anymore. Because the thing about black, it is everything. It sits on you in its intense compartments. Blinding you. Bleeding you dry until the only color you see is the red hazed in front of your arms and behind your eyes. Eluding from your body, screaming out for something he couldn’t provide. 

His happiness leaked out of him until he bled black. 

My mind went blank and my heart went cold and my fingertips went numb and my eyes were pink and clouded from tears. 

Because pink is not only the color of your cheeks, or presence, or lips. Pink was the color of the blood dripping out of your heart, your veins-

His arms.

Pink is in everything. It is in my world, that desaturated and withered away in my white knuckled hands. My grip on a note that said:

_“Goodbye Blue, I love you.”_

His pink even rhymed.

Pink is the color of him, of his calamity, of the dreams he almost lost, of the people he almost forgot, that he almost left. 

And when he opened his eyes on that white table. In a quietly grey room. Pink in everything he did, in everything that brought him back to me. When my grey shifted into blue, and my blue shifted into a combustion of bright colors, like a kaleidoscope spread its wings in front of my soul, I _burst._

In that moment I realized what inspiration beyond words felt like- it felt like I could fly. My heart burned and my tongue dry. I was melting into a pot of gold. And looking at him, it hit me, slammed into me like an addict on a rampage.

I would never love the color pink as much as I do, when it is on him.

Pink is recovery, realization,

a resounding whisper of hope. 

Pink is surviving. Pink is trying. Pink is warmth. Pink is laughter, his hands, his cheeks, his lips, his heart,

sometimes they are his eyes. 

But right now pink is him. And he is _alive._

I no longer hate the color pink. Thank god. 

From,  
Blue in love with Pink.

(p.s I told him that I loved him too. His cheeks are pink again.)

**Author's Note:**

> oops?
> 
> I love these soft sad gay boys but I kind of ignore them... I’m a bad dad. You can thank my friend for leaving that prompt in my ask box tho lol. I can’t believe they’re my OCs now. 
> 
> Anyways, kudos? Comments? Favorite parts? <3


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